


Grey Rats

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ryswells had little use for Maesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey Rats

"Some tea, sister?"

Bethany looks with disgust at the steaming cup in front of her but she takes it, albeit reluctantly, toying with the fragile thing, anything to distract nervous fingers from betraying the emotions that she's been attempting to suppress. Roose has told her, many times now, that she must learn to be still, that her body too often betrays what her carefully schooled features do not, the way that she paces a room, as twitchy as a high-strung horse (Bethany winces at the comparison, for it's a sign of poor breeding in animal flesh and words like _bad blood_ are not far behind), the manner in which her hands find a loose strand of hair to twist and worry and tangle until the orderly curl is a frazzled mess, how she pulls apart a loose thread until the garment is all unraveled. 

Her self-control is non-existent and she cannot stop her mind from thinking on what has happened, on what she's done, but Bethany forces herself to listen to Barbrey, to watch her thin lips form words that don't quite reach distracted ears, ears that are full of the hollow sound of water dripping in a distant dungeon, of the oily squeak of aged hinges, footsteps on the worn flagstones. A knife, drawn against a strap with a practiced hand. Her own breath, heavy and loud in the small space. Soft moans echoing from chambers beyond the close room where she works. 

"--and he would not bother to concern himself with my problems, of course not. Sister, the likes of us are not important to a Stark, as well you remember--"

The complaint is old, faded, and she has heard it many times, in many versions, the same bitter refrain that has been repeated in different keys ever since Ned Stark brought back a starved nag instead of a bundle of bones. Bethany stirs the tea, laying the spoon on the saucer with precision, picking up the cup, fingers crooked just so as she lifts it to her mouth, pretending to drink its steaming contents. 

She remembers, of course. She remembers the way that Uthor had stared at her, his eyes nestled in dark hollows in his thin face. He had not expected a grieving mother to take matters in hand in such a forthright manner, had not thought her more than a gentle hindrance, prescribing her draught after draught of dreamwine when her questions had grown too sharp, too probing. He had not realized that the men who had taken him in the middle of the night from his comfortable chambers deep in the Dreadfort had been there on her authority, and not her husband's. He had not understood how hot her resentment burned towards these men who hemmed and hawed and prevaricated, explaining suspicious deaths away with the wave of a practiced hand, an educated hand. 

She was no fool, though. 

Standing over him had given her a grim pleasure. It did not bring her son back to her, did not erase from her memories the pain in his voice as he called weakly for her, the bright red of the blood that had gushed from his mouth as his dying body tried unsuccessfully to expel the poison that had tainted it so well. But it gave her a sort of peace now to see him restrained, the heavy chain that he'd worn so proudly now gone, melted in the fire on her orders. Rodrik Ryswell had had no use for such southron pretensions, she remembered.

The blade rested on the small table, gleaming in the dimness, catching the flickering light of the candle that she held before her. Bethany thought how it would feel to hold it, the well-worn handle fitting neatly against her palm, her fingers curling round it, her wrist relaxed as she bent to her task.

"--you really ought to have done with those reds and see Father. I hear that he's gotten some fine mounts from the Free Cities, full-blooded creatures fit for a Khal. Perhaps Roose would--"

Roose would not care about horseflesh. Roose concerned himself with little these days, locking himself away in his solar to scribble letters to gods knew who, letters that were not fit for his wife's eyes. Perhaps he mourned his heir, now rotting away in a distant crypt. Perhaps he thought of his bastard, a dirty secret, kept at arm's length in the village on the outskirts on Bolton lands. Her cheeks burned at the thought and something in her chest caught. 

His voice was a wheedling whine, pleading for his life, begging her to see reason, to release him, the idle threats dying away as she stood silent, merciless, nothing more than a statue, her features distorted by shadows that flickered across her face. It was not his fault. He had done nothing. It was merely a sickness of the bowels, a bad belly. She should take consolation in her husband, in the half-child that remained to them, and perhaps, if they were merciful, and if she prayed hard enough, the gods would bless them again.

Bethany reaches for the knife, and finds a teaspoon. It clatters to the floor but she pays it no mind.


End file.
